Chapter 2

IT WAS ONE OF THOSE NIGHTS.

One of those perfect nights when just the right amount of liquor, the right amount of innuendo and racy stories, the right amount of coquettishness on the part of the girls, flirty tactile overtures by the boys, can bring a sexual stew to a perfect boil. Meson activators are pulled, and the atomic pile starts to sputter and hum. Catalysts are overturned and the chemical mixture results in an explosion that leaves wreckage that can never, in one man's lifetime, be repaired.

It was one of those nights.

Afterwards, neither the Randoms or the Hatchers could pinpoint the moment when the fun faded, when double entendre and sexual horseplay became real. Neither couple could list the exact causatives, the manual liberties which accounted for things going out of control.

Trying to figure things out in the days that followed the breakdown, the closest Carl Random could come to affixing blame was remembrance of the bitchy mood in which that Saturday night party was enjoined.

In the first place he'd had a bad week at the plant. All kinds of crises had piled up of late, with he, seemingly, always managing to be the goat when reckoning time came. Things had been touch-and-go between him and Millicent also, aftermath, apparently, of his faux pas the night of their last bedroom bout. And if that hadn't been bad enough there had been the continuing mental disorientation he suffered concerning their marriage, the fact that Millicent recognized that something was wrong between them, had set out in that irritatingly straightforward way of hers to analyze and pinpoint same, talk their difficulties to death.

Of course, when Carl had clammed up-even to the extent of bowing out on their Saturday and Wednesday screwing sessions-the fat had been in the fire. Millicent had taken to making snide remarks about her not being good enough for him any more, compounding misery by conjecturing on which of his office staff sluts he was shacking with during his noon hours.

And where she generally stuck to gin and sours when they joined the Hatchers for one of their bridge-playing evenings, tonight she'd gotten onto martinis, was presently working on her fourth, a new high for Millie.

High is used advisedly.

Don Hatcher and his pretty twenty-eight-year-old wife, Irene, were not without their problems. Still smarting over excessive attentions he'd paid to a Sherry Monfort at a recent company party. she nursed a grudge as well. Thus, when Millicent opted for martinis, she joined her. Don, miffed at being accused unjustly, climbed aboard the martini wagon also and pulled Carl up alongside him. And all moods being negative, circumstances crowding, conspiring, bubbling like some witch's brew-

By eleven o'clock concentration on the bridge game was nil. The Hatcher hi-fi providing a melodic background fill, the Hatcher children long since in the snug embrace of the sand man, there was no reason in the world why the party shouldn't go on, take whatever diverse tangents the moment might dictate.

Thus it was that bridge gave way to carping, jocular shrewishness on the women's part. This nicking banter the men sought to sidestep by blue jokes, innuendo of an unmistakable sort. The essence being that just perhaps a change of scene might be just what the doctor ordered. Suggestive chatter fazed the girls not at all, and they agreed that it was a two way street.

None of which was out of the ordinary for the Hatchers and the Randoms. Carl and Don having grown up together, both of an age, they had always maintained a rather bawdy, share-and-share-alike attitude toward each other; theirs was a camaraderie which surpassed small setbacks, innuendo concerning each other's wives, their sex lives, the lot. Don Hatcher marrying late, only six years into the matrimonial rat-race, he often made sport of Carl's fourteen years, and now, harking back to a particularly ribald joke, he ran a swiping hand over his mouth, said:

"Ma . . .an! Ah don't see how nobody can stand two whole bucks wu'ff o' that!"

Millicent had jumped on this, demanded to know what the joke was, what Don implied by it.

Don obliged, and launching into Negro dialect, told the story of the two little boys who daily passed a whorehouse, saw a continual stream of men coming and going, wondered what went on inside. Whatever it was, one lad informed the other, it cost two dollars. One day one boy, amassing the munificent sum of 25 cents, rapped on the door, and asked for a "piece". Whereupon the big black mammy took his money, whisked him inside, rewarded his sassiness by grabbing him by the ears, jamming his entire head up her snatch, working him back and forth with a drubbing vengeance.

It was as the boy staggered out of the house, wiping the malodorous residue off his face that he'd said: "Ma ... an! Ah don't see how nobody can stand two whole bucks wu'fT o' that!"

After Millicent had stopped giggling, she'd jumped on Don: "And how's that supposed to apply to our marriage?"

"Should be obvious, baby," Don teased. "The way things are going between Irene and me, I just don't see how you and Carl have hung on as long as you have. Christ, I just look at another girl cross-eyed and she's got me having a thing with them. She's got a crazy idea that marriage's supposed to be some kind of jail or something."

Gradually, as the joke-swapping had gone on, everyone talking more thickly, laughing more hilariously by the minute, the acrimony had faded. The music all-pervasive, it had been Millicent who'd pulled Don up from the davenport, made dance-with-me noises. Kicking off her shoes, she'd led him to the end of the living room, where falling into his arms, she'd plastered her body lasciviously against his, making a great show of being a femme fatale.

Immediately Carl and Irene, not about to be outdone, were out of their chairs, joining them on the carpeted dance floor. And if Don and Millie clung hotly, made great show of grinding their bellies together, it was nothing compared to the burlesque of lust the newcomers put on.

At least at first it was a burlesque. For as they continued dancing so closely, as all parties concerned found their pulse quickened, found themselves entertaining the most outrageous of fantasies, the mood very swiftly changed, became dangerous indeed. After all, Millicent and Irene were beautifully, voluptuously endowed females, the disparity in their ages notwithstanding. Irene, a witty, slangy blonde, possessed of some very outstanding knockers, a flaring waist and made-for-business hips and derriere, she could use some sexual seasoning. Seasoning that Carl Random was more than ready to supply. And where Millicent was slightly faded, more diminutive in the boobs department, there was still that dark mystery in her eyes, the unspoken savoir faire she possessed in matters sexual. If Carl could improve Irene's sexual finesse, she could certainly do the same for Don.

Both were handsome enough men, even at thirty-seven and thirty-eight, and neither woman could be blamed if the present sexiness of their circumstances should cause their spines to feel rubbery, trigger a quick heat and tightening between their legs while they danced. And if Don Hatcher was taller, slightly more burly than Carl Random, Irene wasn't complaining. She found it very exciting to dance this close with Carl; she found being able to nestle her cheek to his very comforting indeed, a thing she couldn't ordinarily do with her taller husband. Smaller in stature though Carl might be, there was one department in which he wasn't slighted, and as they danced with increasing abandon, she thought the monumental dig of his swollen cock into her thigh vastly exciting. Even if things never went any further, there would still be cherished memory of this brief moment of naughtiness to sustain her on the morrow. To this purpose she sought to capitalize on the mood, reciprocated his "accidental" buntings with swirls and buntings of her own. She detoured as they danced, extinguished all but a tiny statuary lamp atop the TV set, plunged the room into even more seductive gloom, thrilling at her own wickedness.

Millicent Random watched her best friend kill the lights, and she thought gin-blitzed thoughts to the effect that if she were ever to share her husband with any woman, she'd want it to be with Irene. And wasn't Don holding her close? Wasn't he huge, strong? Man? Wasn't the throb and poke of his big, hard prick in her belly fantastically exciting? The gin made her more woozy, briefly queasy even, and momentarily she clung desperately to Don. Now she felt better; she flowered beneath Don's touch; she thought the way his fingers toyed with the nape of her neck beneath her long, black hair excitingly intimate. She actually felt a wash of female fluids gather in the crotch of her suddenly-steamy panties.

The men were no less aware of what was happening. At least individually, an unspoken compact between each and his dancing partner. Through his woozy daze Carl's eyes narrowed in disbelief as he saw Don's hand slither down Millie's back, close on one slowly-gyrating buttock, lift and roil there. He was more amazed to see the way Millie tolerated the intimacy, ground her body more hotly to his in response.

In direct retaliation he dropped his hand down along Irene's back, flirted with her ultra-pneumatic rondules briefly before picking one, taloning it with gentle fingers, using it as a handle with which to work her still more tightly against his red-hot, aching jock. He heard Irene's quick intake of breath, a slight tensing in her back. But then she relaxed, sighed happy assent, made Carl suck in a breath of his own, as she slid her face across his, only stopped when their mouths were locked, when her tongue was saucily sliding back and forth in the V of his lips. A second later he opened his mouth, admitted her spicy serpent, brought his own to duel with it. He felt a hot charge of his love oil trickle down his inner thigh, and reflexively bunted his cock even harder into her welcoming body.

Carl felt his guts jumble. He wanted to howl with desire. He wanted to fling Irene down then and there, take care of things on the spot!

But he did nothing of the sort. Instead, he froze in mid-stride, and temporizing, told himself this was just a harmless game, that nothing would come of it-he tilted Irene's pretty blonde head, kissed her the more possessively, the click of her teeth on his; the slight, hurting suck she administered to his tongue bloated his ego intolerably.

It was as they were thus engaged that Don looked up, saw them. And opening from the dance stance, indicated the progression to Millicent. She smiled dreamily, a flaring of jealousy instantly muted, and with no words at all, stood on her toes, indicated that Don kiss her as well.

For a long time, as each couple became aware of the other's actions, they stood in a paralyzed, stricken pose. Millicent's eyes were molten, pleading when they locked with Carl's. Please-they said. Just a little longer. Let me play! Let this go on a little longer.

His look was equally haunted. And his one hand beneath Irene's jutting, seam-straining breast, he worked his fingers still higher, tweaked the hard nipple inside her brassiere in plain view of his wife's gaping stare. His eyes looked like they would explode.

Don and Irene stared at each other similarly, that same desperation in their gaze, that same pleading in their slack, lust-filled mouths. Oh, God, their eyes beseeched, just this one time. It won't be wrong. They're our very best friends. If it has to be with anybody-

Even as they stood in the mute panoply Don responded to Carl's liberty with his wife by deliberately bringing up one hand, lifting Millicent's left breast. Then, his eyes rolling, frantic, he moved toward the TV, and in slow, resolute movements, turned off the TV lamp. There was only the soft, soothing flow of music from the all-night FM station; there was the unblinking eye of the stereo signal, a feeble glimmer from the selector panel.

Carl heard the squeak of the davenport as Don led Millie around the coffee table, sat her down, immediately took her into his arms, began kissing her anew. As for he and Irene, they kissed in the middle of the floor, their lower bodies gyrating helplessly, their tongues pistoning ceaselessly, twisting and twining and sucking. A moment later their legs turned to spaghetti, and they sank to the floor with an animalistic, shattery gasp. Immediately they were sprawled upon the carpet, their lips locked, their arms wound around each other. As Carl brought up his knee, crowded it between Irene's she swiftly answered by spreading her own legs, welcoming him with an unmistakable signal of surrender.

How long the couples lay in the throes of their over-powering, reason-atrophying lust, they were never to know. For very shortly it was as if, literally, the others had ceased to exist. So far as Carl was concerned, he could have had Irene then and there, with Don and Millicent right beside them, and he'd never have known it. The radio shut out all but the most violent sighs and hissings of delight, the metallic snarl of male and female zippers, as things now became very wild indeed.

It was Irene herself, totally beyond conscience by then, who made the first overt move. Carl was kissing her, socking his tongue in and out of her mouth in pseudo-copulatory gestures, when she started, clamped down on his tongue, simultaneously sent her fingers between them, began to fun his fly. Seconds later her hand was inside his trousers, fighting to snake inside his shorts, wrap around the much-longed-after cock. Seconds later she found it, strummed its slimy head with her fingers, boldly began hoisting it up and out. With her own hands, she brought up her skirts so its weeping snout wouldn't stain her clothes. Carl hissed loudly as his tacky corona adhered momentarily to her hot, silky thighs.

"Oh, God, Irene," Carl choked, fighting her hands, the whole, insane thing happening altogether too fast for him. "This is crazy. How'd we get like this? C'mon now. You shouldn't. Not just like that. Let me at least..."

Then, totally ignoring Millicent and Don's presence, discounting the possibility of them observing him in the throes of his maenadic lust, he fought her, fell upon her, his lips gliding on the upper reaches of her hosiery, immediately setting off for more northern climes. She gasped and lurched as his lips careened off her nylons, encountered her bare thighs, scooted for the high country. Then, when his lips nuzzled her damps, when his mouth closed on the sopping mouth of her cunt proper, chewed and sucked it through sodden nylon, Irene truly writhed and seethed in intermixed agony and passion.

Brief minutes later, Irene transported, beyond all retreat now, she docilely lifted her hips, allowed him to drag her panties from beneath her fanny, work them down her legs, his mouth instantly pouncing on the golden snarl of her gash, his tongue lashing her clit even as he struggled them off her legs. "Carl, oh, Carl..." she gasped. "Stop now. What are you doing? That's perverted, that's..."

His tongue snaked inside her gash now, flogged the distended pearl of her clitoris in desperate cadence.

She lurched, gasped stertorously. "That's heavenly, simply heavenly! Nobody's ever..." The exclamation went unfinished. At least so far as Carl was concerned. For as his tongue swabbed her more insanely, her silk-glossed legs closed on his head, blotted out all sounds except that amplified clatter of his licking, sucking lips and tongue inside his skull.

Thus, he didn't hear when Don and Millicent abruptly rose from the davenport, stumbled through the gloom, quit the living room for greener pastures. Had he heard his wife being spirited away for purposes of a lusty pronging by another man, he might have been shocked from his obscene trance; he might have regained his senses, called screeching halt to the travesty about to take place. Only Carl didn't hear.

"We'll be in the front bedroom, Irene," Don called softly, wistfully. "You're sure, honey ... it's okay? You won't mind..."

"I'm sure," Irene intoned eerily. You go ... just go. Leave us alone..." She flopped and slithered uncontrollably on the carpet, her cries gurling, thick. If this was wrong, if this was perverted, she decided, someone had been giving her the bummest of steers about the wages of sin all these years. She flapped her knees like a crippled windmill in a hurricane, alternately opened and closed her cunt, welcoming and shutting off the hair-curling sensation in conflicting spates of sensation.

Millicent was never to remember how she got to the bedroom. Her stockings flapping about her ankles, one shoe on, the other off, her panties and girdle discarded somewhere along the line, she allowed him to guide her through the dark house, to usher her into the fragrant, mildly coolish bedroom. Even as he turned her in the gloom, sat her on the bed's edge, she fought to expunge that last vision from her brain. Dear God! she wailed in disbelief. That couldn't have been Carl, could it? With his head between Irene's legs? Gobbling her there for all he was worth? Not my Carl?

An insane, irrational resolution formed in her brain, a determination vaguely hinging on the adage that has to do with "Sauce for the goose-"

Then as Don eased her back onto the bed, immediately wedged his hand between her thighs, cupped the whole of her sodden crotch, clenched and tugged it, driving an incisive finger inside her slit in the bargain, strumming her clitoris, the lunatic lust was back. She blamed Carl. He never should have let me drink this much. He should have got up from the floor at the last minute there. Instead of wallowing between Irene's legs like that. He should have stopped me. How can I be strong when he's like that-the way he is? I shouldn't let Don handle me like this. I shouldn't let him shove his fingers in my pussy!

But then a lunatic, contradictory rationale took charge. And why not? If Carl chooses to crawl before Irene, if he prefers her to me? Don't I want to? Two can play at this game. And, God, isn't it the truth? That you really want to with another man? A man older than my husband? Don't I want to see what it will be like? What his prick will feel like shoved into my hole"!

She gasped, went stiff as the last chaotic thought smashed down: To see how his prick feels-in my mouth).

Still she wouldn't take responsibility for her wanton bravura. It's all your, fault, Carl. You're the one who's had the hots for those teenage poppsies at the office. And now you'll be repaid. In spades.

Lapsing into even deeper frenzy, she helped Don rip the rest of her clothing away; she even lurched up, fell over him, commenced tugging at his shirt and undershirt. Now his trousers, his shoes, his socks. The fantastic tenting in his white, cotton jockey-shorts was too much for her, and quickly her hand dove for the elastic band, dragged the shorts down. She exulted in the way his beautiful whang slapped forth, spraying tiny flecks of his oil in her hovering face as it did so. Suddenly, dementedly, the overdose of gin still with her, intermixed with the rawest of lusts, she was upon him; she was swallowing as much of the glorious cock as she could; she was coasting her lips up and down its delicious length, delighting in the rank smell of him, in the salty flavor. It was a feeling she'd never experienced before, a thrilling, maddening thing, sparking long-buried tremors, unrecallable memories and yearnings in her subconscious. This smell? This taste? she pondered. What did it mean? And why, why-with a strange man? Why these so fantastically intensified urges? These forbidden urges?

She blotted out the disturbing fears, rededicated herself to sucking Don. Very shortly, it became obvious that it was, indeed a first for him. "No, Millie," he protested, "now stop that. You shouldn't take me ... in your mouth like that. It's abnormal." He yipped as she bore down with her teeth, resisted his efforts to dislodge her. "Oh, honey ... don't!"

Which protests and display of coyness Millicent found overpoweringly sweet, made her all the more eager to s-'ck him, to teach him. Her mouth flowed up and down on the delicious root all the more frenziedly now. Very shortly she was humming happily, her nails scrabbling in the bundle of his sex, pincering his testicles lightly.

"I couldn't, I couldn't," Irene was protesting at that moment, she and Carl having gained the vacated davenport, she on her back, with Carl straddling her shoulders, the heavy hank of his cock at dripping attention above her face, the mighty muzzle aimed precisely, canted toward her protesting lips. "I've never done anything like that before. I swear, Don's never wanted ... never let me. I. . . "

"There's always a first time," Carl snickered. "It's the least you can do. After the lacing I just gave you. For all you know ... Don and Millie ... the same thing ... at this very moment. She's sucking him; he's sucking her. You wanna be left out?"

"Anything else, baby. You can suck me again if you want; you can put that monstrous meat into me. Only don't make me do ... this ... awful ... "

Arrogantly, Carl drove the slippery knob of his tool up against her lips, worked it gently against them, deriving sadistic charge out of Irene's gagging outcries, the flop and squirm of her head as she sought to avoid the odorous length. "Suppose I tell you that you don't get this? In your pussy, I mean? Not until you ... do as you're told?"

She lurched, wailed piteously. "Oh, Carl, baby, please! You wouldn't. You wouldn't leave me hanging. Not when I need you so badly! Please, darling!"

He drove the thick snout more firmly against her clenched teeth, worked it back and forth on her in piano keyboard effect. Open up, sweetheart," he gritted. "You might as well get used to it. If I have to force you..."

Inch by inch he wedged her mouth open, gradually worked his prick into her mumbling, wheezing mouth. "Don't bite!" he snapped. "That's a baby. That's a good girl. In we go. That isn't so bad, is it? Once you get started..."

It wasn't bad, Irene was forced to concede. Once the initial revulsion was past, it wasn't bad at all. And just where do people get such crazy ideas? There was no strong, repugnant taste. The slight saltiness at first. Then the bland cream, tasteless as mineral oil. And beyond that, the glorious sensation of having your mouth filled to bursting with male meat. The excitement of being forced, of having a man show you who's boss. Exquisite, how exquisite! And why did I fight it? When all along-

Now Irene strained her head, fought to take in still more of him. She cursed when he banged the back of her throat, made her gag slightly. Heavenly, heavenly, she exulted. If only I could get more of him in. Oh this gorgeous feeling! Sex for sex's sake! To wallow like some unprincipled animal! To let all the filth in my soul come out. All the filth I've been afraid to admit until now. All the filth I've been afraid to let Don know about. But with this man, this near-stranger-

All of it! Every depraved, forbidden act! Let it all come out!

By way of celebration of her new emancipation, Irene gruntingly adjusted herself and matter-of-factly corkscrew her finger deeply into Carl's ass-hole.

While in the front bedroom Millicent now lay on her back, with Don over her, his great, battering ram going in and out of her deliciously, ruthlessly. She crooned in a surfeit of ecstasy and drunkenness; she adjusted her ankles about his waist more precisely, thought the flex and flow of her legs on the bridge of his back pleasurable beyond compare. Seemingly, she could control her own orgasmic destiny herself. Now pinched barks of ecstasy abraded her throat, and her legs flexed that much more swiftly as climax number four loomed on the lightning-splashed horizon of her sexual consciousness. A jagged, blinding flash arced across that midnight velvet, tore gaping holes in the ceiling of the world, set rampaging fires against that jet-black tapestry of estrus.

Almost immediately Don's Long Tom roared, and she became blissfully aware of the copious jet-tings that bathed the inner linings of her belly. She screamed through clenched teeth-a joyous, fulfilled scream.

As of that moment the conflagrations in the depths of her soul-the subliminal guilt pangsceased to exist.

If Carl and Millicent, Don and Irene were in the midst of a star-fire, if their Armageddon still loomed, there were others in the city of Porterfield who were facing equally grave crises as well. Among them were Daphne and Kenyon Gwynn, a married couple of three years duration, twenty-four and twenty-six years of age respectively. Who were separately ensconced-Daphne at one end, Kenyon at another, each in viewing distance of the other at the elite, basement bar which the Silver Eagle Motel boasted.

In the multi-colored, revolving light that worked in perpetuity above the horseshoe bar itself, Daphne Gwynn looked more ravishing (or so Kenyon proudly thought) than he could remember. Her exotic pallor, the raven-black hair the dark eye shadow, the iridescent pink lipstick which gave perplexing, ing'nue taunt to her lush lips. Then the dark, daring gown that revealed the brimming swell of her opulent, creamy breasts, the taunt almost deliberate.

At that moment, Daphne stared down the bar at her husband, terror and beseechment of the most desperate kind in her eyes. Please, darling, her eyes pleaded. Don't make me go through with this. Anything, only-

Kenyon frowned, drew his lips into a harsh, demanding line. Almost imperceptibly the ravishing female shrunk inwardly, all will and purpose suddenly stolen from her. When the handsome young salesman sat next to her, offered to buy her a drink in return for conversation, she forced a sultry grin onto her lips, nodded seductively.

Kenyon Gwynn smiled with delight, watched his lovely wife skillfully vamp the salesman. Seeing the expression on her swain's face, the sexual hunger glittering in his eyes, Gwynn was rewarded by a monumental erection inside his trousers. Tomorrow-he thought expectantly.

Perhaps three-quarters of an hour later, Daphne playing her role expertly, she and the salesman arose from the bar, drifted toward the stairs leading into the motel proper. There could be no mistake: She'd been propositioned; she was now going upstairs to bed with her new conquest. She would most-likely be laid to within an inch of her young life.

They were gone for almost two hours. And still Kenyon Gwynn sat at the bar nursing his Scotch. He imagined all the wild things that must be transpiring in that room upstairs. The things the salesman would do to his wife! Yet there was no rage, no jealousy. Only the irrepressible expectancy, the Buddha-like smile. There was the even more monumental hard-on in his trousers. Which hard-on Gwynn pleasurably caressed with butterfly fingers from time to time.